Light of Paris
by LunaStellaCat
Summary: A breakfast with croissants and coffee leads to something more. For HSWW Challenges and Assignments. Thanks for reading. Hope you liked it. Reviews would be awesome.


For HSWW: Challenges & Assignments.

Career Advice: Task 2, Omniocular Seller, Write about someone suddenly seeing someone else for who they really are.

Warning: Violence

A/N: When I finally sat down to write this and got it onto paper and out of my head, I really, really enjoyed it. I miss that feeling. A week's worth of a headache? Worth it.

Words 3400

Nicholas Flamel always returned to Paris, the city of his birth. Although the place changed here and there, he enjoyed his favorite haunts and always came back home.

Perenelle wondered why this Englishman, a student fresh out of school, insisted on writing her husband. Nicholas left the owls unanswered, letting them pile up, hoping the young man got the hint, but every so often when Perenelle glimpsed her husband shuffling through correspondence, Nicholas stopped and got lost in the moment. The man stopped without the slightest explanation and started writing again. Nicholas admired and respected Mr. Dumbledore.

Nicholas said no to Albus Dumbledore, and he never bothered with the reasons why. When Nicholas last took an apprentice, Jonathan Foley burned all of their work to the ground, and Perenelle practically dragged her husband over the Channel because they never stayed safe with the Philosopher's Stone; she marked it as both a blessing and a curse because Nicholas hated and loved his master stroke in equal measure.

In 1924, the Olympic Games came back to Paris. Perenelle stayed away from the crowds, but she enjoyed watching people flocking to the heart of Paris to celebrate the illusion of human peace. Alchemy acted as a stable bridge between magic and science, as she often masqueraded as a Muggle; she and her husband lived on the fringe of two words. Perenelle attended school until she was thirteen, so she learned from making mistakes over and over again and eventually stumbled onto the answers. Perenelle's dark hair fell down her back in a plait. She wore a flowing green dress as she sat in a café, waving at children as they raced past with the national flag.

The young man wore a suit at least twenty years out of date. Perenelle tapped her foot, accepting a coffee from a waitress and asking for the paper. Twelve years ago, when the Titanic sank, Nicholas marked this as the beginning of the end of isolation, whereas Perenelle found a sustainable hope in friendly international competition. Albus Dumbledore smiled slightly when Perenelle shook her head, warning him not to sit at the table near the kitchens, and he walked over to greet her.

Perenelle fought a smile when he waited for her to offer her hand first. She started with French, her dialect difficult to pin down. "It is a pleasure, monsieur, although one would think you would tire of the one-sided conversation."

"A turn deserves another," said Dumbledore, sitting down after shaking her hand. He lowered his voice, challenging the weight of an answer. "When the alchemist responds to a hurried correction in an article with three rolls of parchment, he isn't exactly giving you the cold shoulder."

"The alchemist." Perenelle thanked the waitress who placed croissants and pain au chocolat on the table with fresh coffee. She loved whenever people placed her husband next to God and she took the opportunity to drag them back down to earth. "Muhammad Amir, Cairo, alchemist. George Whittaker, Massachusetts, alchemist. Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Geneva, philosopher and alchemist."

"An apprentice of your husband," pointed out Dumbledore, stirring his coffee and placing his hands around the mug.

"A good one. Not the point. Nicholas is not God. He happened to pick up the right book and put two and two together." Perenelle set her spoon on a napkin and placed another one in her lap. She lit a cigarette with a silver cigarette lighter and found it dulled her headache a little. Albus Dumbledore's face broke into a smile as Perenelle inhaled deeply, muttering about dropping a habit.

"You're more than I expected." Albus sliced the pain au chocolat open.

Perenelle, not exactly sure this was a good or bad thing, suspended judgement for the moment and offered the wizard a smoke. Dumbledore shook his head. She flicked her lighter absently, letting the blue flame kiss her fingers. "On our wedding day, my husband said he expected me to shrivel like a crone."

Instead of getting the reaction she wanted, Albus Dumbledore settled for somewhere between a cough and clearing his throat. Perenelle showed him all her teeth, a smile, and he returned it.

"I was thirty-seven. In the fourteenth century." Perenelle suddenly flashed back to her own shocked expression on her wedding night to husband number three. Nicholas later amended this answer, saying he'd finally found his person. "What makes a good foundation for a partnership?"

"Companionship?"

"You are this other person's person at the end of day." Perenelle tapped her cigarette on an ashtray and left the it burning there. "No matter what."

Albus Dumbledore finished half a croissant and presented her with a basket of oranges and expensive chocolate, and he delightedly filled her in on his first encounter with the alchemist. "Your husband slammed the door in my face this morning and suggested I take the scenic route. He hated me already, and this wasn't going to change. He's a difficult man … your husband."

Perenelle laughed, plucking out an orange and peeling it. "You don't say?"

Perenelle could claim anywhere from forty to sixty. She stayed with simple clothing because she preferred staying in the background. They finished breakfast, and after pocketing her lighter, Perenelle tossed one of her oranges to a small girl in the street as they passed by. The fruit slipped through her fingers, and the child's infectious smile turned upside down. Dumbledore took another from the basket hanging on Perenelle's arm, and strode over to to the girl, soothing her in rapid French.

Perenelle smiled, remembering Nicholas pulling an identical move with her daughter, Charlotte, when they struggled to keep their heads above water a long, long time ago.

"You sound like a foreigner," she said, looping her arm through Dumbledore's when he came back. She switched to English, not to make it easier, but simply to show this presented no challenge. "Oranges were rationed in the world war and they used to be for the wealthy."

"You are wealthy."

"I made good marriages, yes, Mr. Dumbledore, but that's not what I mean. Nicholas was happiest as a book seller, but he made an extraordinary linguistics professor at the University de Paris in the sixteenth century. The money means nothing."

"You speak flawlessly," he said, disguising a trace of emotion his tone.

Perenelle patted his arm. "It helps when you've got six centuries and nothing but time on your hands, monsieur. Want the secret to getting to Nicholas Flamel?"

"There's a secret?" Dumbledore raised his eyebrows, apparently not buying a word of this.

"You stood in the rain Alexandria in 1900 at the alchemical conference. And again two years ago. I don't know anything about you, and I don't really care. But you did this with your traveling cloak." Perenelle conjured a knit full-length cardigan out of nowhere and walked over to drape it over the shoulders of a hunched old woman standing by the Siene. Albus nodded. "Why?"

"Nicholas stopped breathing. He caught a bout of walking pneumonia in the summertime and he didn't want anyone to know. The second time might've been the common cold." Albus explained this like he broke down a simple chemical reaction. Perenelle squeezed his hand, linking their fingers together. Albus shrugged as if to say anyone might have done this.

"You see Nicholas as Nicholas." Perenelle stood on her tiptoes for a moment and kissed him on the cheek. Albus said nothing, thrown off his guard for a moment, but he put himself back together. "You used to write him daily when you were seventeen. And the letters stopped. Why?"

"I don't know, Madame Perenelle." The man's blue eyes twinkled behind his half-moon spectacles.

They walked down the narrow streets. Perenelle knew Nicholas struggled with trusting people because they always kept their eyes on the prize. Nicholas crafted jewels out of nothing. And despite the fact the Philosopher's Stone appeared as nothing more than a discarded ruby, it and the ancient receipt book from which Nicholas found its secret held more mysteries than anyone knew.

Perenelle pretended to join a queue outside of the Notre-Dame de Paris, the Gothic cathedral where she once sought sanctuary. It had been a new jewel in Paris. Albus joined her. Perenelle moved at her own pace because she had all the time in the world. As the crowd thinned soon after the sky darkened, Perenelle stood off to the side by the Siene and shared a large umbrella with the man.

"I almost died. There." Perenelle pointed to the steps leading up to the cathedral doors. Perenelle saw nothing, although as she relived her last moments, she imagined a noblewoman stripped of everything but her chemise and stockings, banging on the doors as she fled from her husband, begging for sanctuary. Albus turned to her. "I hemorrhaged on the steps of the church during the birth. So much blood …you hear it all the time, the body holds six liters of blood … but until you see it …"

Albus tightened his grip on the umbrella.

"I worked as a midwife in the Paris, and Nicholas decided he'd try his hand as a physician's assistant when he tired as a scribe. I know what Death looks like because I have seen the plague, the sweating sickness, and dragon pox. Nicholas found me." Perenelle balled her fists by her sides, reliving her crippling fear as she pounded the cathedral doors and fought against the background of the thundering storm. She inhaled deeply, shaking her head until the memory cleared.

"What happened, Madame?" Albus placed a hand on her shoulder.

"I guided Nicholas through everything and begged him not to let me sleep. Women died of childbirth all the time. When Death finally visits you, it's odd how the senses clear. I kept telling Nicholas about these oranges I purchased at market." Perenelle believed Death deserved its personification if people approached it with such reverted respect and fear. "A fat friar finally opened the doors as Nicholas tipped some substance into my mouth and insisted I drink the wine before he took me into his arms and carried me away."

Albus finally turned away from Notre-Dame. "And the child? Why didn't they help you?"

"Gold and influence buys you anything in this city. I imagine the good Viscount, my honorable and faithful husband," she hissed, nodding to the old customs, her tone dripping with contempt, "bought his silence when he beat me within an inch of my life. Nicholas later told me the child was stillborn. A girl."

"My apologies."

"Remind me to show you the catacombs, life underneath the city." Perenelle shrugged this off and ventured deeper into Paris. The market smelled of the sea, dampness, and a mix of other aromas. Perenelle purchased milk, eggs, a baguette, vegetables, and seafood. She waved Dumbledore over, wondering how well he detected with his broken nose. "What tells you whether a merchant offers fresh seafood, monsieur?"

"It smells of fish," he said.

"A common misconception. It smells of the sea." Perenelle quickly exchanged the clams and old fish Dumbledore chose in front of the annoyed monger. Perenelle bartered with the fish monger in rapid French and tossed the old stuff back. "And you live on an island!"

"Yes." Albus inclined his head a little, uncomfortable with admitting a fault. He carried the food in paper bags, leaving Perenelle with her gifts.

"You don't cook." Perenelle exchanged Muggle money for her purchases and purchased freshly churned butter from a farmer's daughter with the French banners painted on her chubby cheeks. The beautiful girl no doubt stood here as a trap for tourists, and Perenelle, delighting in the simplicity of a ruse, kissed her, paying double. Perenelle pointed towards the narrow streets where no transportation passed, speaking French again. "This way."

They said nothing for some time. "Monsieur Dumbledore?"

"Yes?"

Perenelle shared something she learned as they walked home later. "Life gets easier when we admit we don't have the answers because our accomplishments shine as enduringly as our flaws."

Perenelle stopped in front of the third apartment on the left. Albus went up first, climbing the staircase, and it took a moment for Perenelle to relax as he slipped inside. She remembered he had been here earlier in the day.

A thin man dressed in casual Muggle clothing stood on a wooden ladder. Perenelle stepped back, dripping without the umbrella, and watched her husband hang a retired symbol of France. Nicolas brushed his damp hair out of his green eyes and bowed, beaming, carelessly forgetting to grab the ladder.

"Nobody knows what it is, Nicola." She called him Nicola, his name absent of the Anglicized pronunciation. Nicholas dismissed her with a wave of his hand and started to climb down. More comfortable with performing magic, he cleared out the ladder and pulled a face. Perenelle tapped him on the cheek, seeing he hadn't shaved in a few days. They kissed. "I like this."

Nicholas smiled, aiming for a feeble nod at his patriotism.

"You're an idiot. And it's raining which means you'll catch cold." Nicholas heaved a resigned sigh because this was all he received for what he clearly assumed deserved more. Nicholas cleared the task with simple spell and the food stored itself away.

Nicholas conjured a large pot. "Bouillabaisse?"

"No, fish stew." Perenelle placed her wand on the counter and demonstrated knife skills for their houseguest, pleased when Albus stepped into her place. With all the time in the world at her disposal, Perenelle enjoyed using her hands to bring life into the kitchen. Nicholas acted as though the other wizard wasn't here, but this proved an impossible task when a colorful array of vegetables tipped themselves into the pot.

Nicholas stormed out. He was a patient man, at least when it suited him, yet he was quick to anger. Nicholas did as Nicholas pleased, thank you very much, and he put his foot down.

"I ruined your day." Albus leaned against the wall.

"No, this is actually Nicholas on a good day." Perenelle checked the stock before adding the fish and sniffed the oranges and chocolate bars. She knew exactly what to do with these and set about making a cake. She sifted the dry ingredients into the wet, glancing at the wizard. Perenelle turned on the faucet. She closed her eyes, shifted things here and there in her mind, and rubbed her hands together to create heat. Water transformed into fine sugar trickled itself through her fingers until she cupped it in her hands. "I forgot this."

Albus pointed at the woman's wand laying on the counter. "Transmutation."

"Good. How does that work exactly?" After the sugar dissolved, Perenelle added coffee and sour cream to her chocolate dessert and tasted the mixture with her finger before placing it in the oven. Perenelle rolled her eyes at the ceiling, taking her time washing her hands. "Pretend I am a plain old woman."

"How could you ever be called plain, Madame Perenelle?" Albus sat down at the table as warmness filled the open kitchen. Perenelle waited. "Sugar and water hold into their essential properties, elements, hydrogen and oxygen, whenever heat gets applied. It starts as the same thing."

Perenelle snorted. "You took me as the housewife."

"Yes." Albus stared at her, acting as though he missed a step.

"You and the rest of the world." Perenelle decorated the dessert with a quick, steady hand. She left this bowl to wash up later as she tended to the stew, but she caught him tasting the frosting on the spatula out of the corner of her eye. "We're going to get along fine, you and me. Because Nicholas believes in a philosophy of a happy wife."

Albus ran the spatula along the bowl, perfectly content in his moment of chocolatey goodness.

"Your mother wasn't like this?" Perenelle threw out a guess, although she hardly knew this stranger who walked into her life. She didn't expect him to answer. Perenelle nodded, for the man's silence spoke volumes. Perenelle tipped stew into a bowl and sliced the baguette. "Nicola finds happiness in the little things, especially on a rainy day like this one. I can teach you, too."

"Alchemy?"

"Mmm hmm."

Albus tasted the broth. "Does he always catch cold?"

"Nicola? Yes. We might not look old but we feel it. Whatever he is, whoever he is nowadays, Nicola came from the nothings who were lucky to go to bed with a full belly." Perenelle learned a lot about her husband over the years, yet he remained the same person. Nicholas eventually wandered back into the kitchen and and smiled when his wife tipped extra into his bowl.

"The little girl." Nicholas took a fencer's stance before he fished around for the good stuff at the bottom of the pot, searching helplessly for a name he couldn't remember. Perenelle tipped wine into the men's glasses.

Nicholas sat down again.

"Charlotte Lumière." Perenelle read the name in the morning paper earlier this morning. Nicholas snapped his calloused fingers, thanking her for filling in his memory lapse.

"She doesn't look like anything. A twig, a nothing." Nicholas dipped his baguette into his stew and Albus turned to face him, a look of polite interest on his face, "but if they hand this girl a chance, she'll catch like wildfire. She's Parisian."

"You like her." Perenelle found a copy of the paper she read earlier nestled by the bread box. She beamed at Nicholas as she read the headline. "La lumière de Paris?"

Nicholas drummed his fingers on the table. "The world needs hope. The time she stands on the world's stage, she represents France. I wonder who instructed her on her technique."

"Nicola." Perenelle handed the paper to Albus.

"She's left-handed," muttered Nicholas, shrugging as if this settled the argument.

"You like Charlotte. That is a resounding yes." Perenelle clapped her hands gleefully.

"What?" Nicholas tapped the stationary greyscale photograph of the blonde olive-skinned beauty holding a mask under one arm and an epee in her left hand. "We need a symbol of hope in France."

"In a few weeks, you'll forget her name like everyone else." Perenelle poured herself a cup of coffee and tasted a little of this and a little of that. She considered the kitchen her hearth and treated it the same way Nicholas treated his crucible or anything else in the laboratory. Nicholas waved her down, dismissing this as nonsense. "She's a child. Nicola, who the head of the government?"

Nicholas dunked his baguette. "I don't know. Why would I care?"

Perenelle nodded, smiling on the inside. She took his answer as a good one as she paced the kitchen. Nicholas got up when Perenelle finally decided to get a bowl and he tipped two slices of cake onto plates.

He stuck a fork in Albus's piece. "How was your first lesson?"

Albus set his fork on his plate.

"Baking is essentially chemistry. Alchemy is chemistry." Nicholas rubbed his cold, worn hands together to bring heat back into them and relieve the arthritis. Nicholas went back for a second slice before Perenelle could bother with come up the the beginnings of an explanation, and Albus apparently decided to go along with the flow because he tasted the frosting again with his finger. Nicholas frowned. "What?"

"Nothing," the other two said together.

"He's not an idiot," Nicholas muttered underneath his breath. Albus Dumbledore simply beamed. Nicholas sighed, grumbling to the heavens, and reached inside his pocket. He slapped a silver cigarette lighter into Albus's hand. "Here."

Albus looked like he missed something.

Perenelle placed the dishes in the basin, and burst out laughing when Albus turned towards her, a question on his lips. She opened the cupboard, grabbed two plates, and offered no complaints when Nicholas retreated back into his sanctuary as the other dishes clinked in the background. They washed themselves by magic.

"That's going to be interesting," said Albus, distracted when the alchemist locked himself in his laboratory. He folded the paper along its creases and ignited the lighter. "Is that a yes?"

"Dark chocolate gateau. Coffee. Coffee and croissants on the mornings when your husband goes off the deep end." Perenelle cut through her piece of cake with a fork, and Albus decided it might be safer in the kitchen. Perenelle promised Nicholas would come around eventually. Whether or not the wizard believed her, she didn't know, but Perenelle saw this as the start of a long, beautiful friendship.


End file.
